


Are You There, Yavanna? It's Me, Bilbo Baggins

by Tyranno



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Bilbo Baggins, F/M, Female Bilbo Baggins, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Nothing explicit, Other, Pregnant Bilbo Baggins, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: After escaping a forced marriage with the Great Defiler, Bilbo considers joining a quest to reclaim Erebor standard for whatever mess her life has suddenly become. But dwarves and dragons are the least of her worries--her main concern now is the little passenger she's acquired, growing steadily in her belly./ / Discontinued.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 17
Kudos: 131





	Are You There, Yavanna? It's Me, Bilbo Baggins

**Author's Note:**

> nothing explicit will be shown re: the most worrying tags on this fic. Still, I'll include any possible triggers/squicks in the end notes of each chapter.

A wound gives off its own light

surgeons say.

If all the lamps in the house were turned out

you could dress this wound

by what shines from it.

— _Anne Carson_ , The Beauty of the Husband

.

.

.

🍂

Thorin’s blade buried into the stomach of a warg, the dying scream of the creature exploding next to his ear. His head rang and he twisted the hilt, narrowly missing the jaws as it struggled around him. It died quickly, falling limp and sagging against the slick ground and Thorin pressed his boot against its ribs and dragged his sword out.

Thorin wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, breath coming ragged. The air smelled foul, a sour mixture of entrails and urine. His chest ached.

He always knew there was a chance that his quest would end poorly—he just didn’t think it would happen to soon. He closed his eyes, stomach rolling. Could it really be unlucky number of members in the company? It seemed foolish, but Thorin couldn’t think of any other reason why it had fallen apart so fast.

“Dwarf!” A voice called, sharply.

Thorin straightened up, expecting another Orc rider, perhaps another dozen to match the ones he’d just mowed down. But over the mounds of bodies, he couldn’t see anything. He peered around.

“Behind you!”

Thorin spun, raising his sword.

The first thing he saw was Kili, slung over someone’s shoulder. His nephew looked pale and his eyes were closed, a large gash bleeding sluggishly on his temple, but he was breathing slowly. Relieved, Thorin turned his attention on the figure carrying the young dwarf.

It was—a female halfling. Thorin squinted at her. Her hair was a wild mass of curls which covered her form almost entirely, knotted and matted, swinging around her short form in sheets. Her dark eyebrows were furrowed together, sweat beading her forehead as she half carried, half dragged Kili along.

“Is this fellow yours?” The halfling grunted, “Come take him.”

Thorin lurched towards her, scrambling over mounds of earth, before pausing a few feet from her. He frowned, some instinct making him hesitate.

“I’m not about to let him drop after carrying him this long,” The halfling snapped, “Come get him.”

Thorin reached her, grasping Kili’s shoulder—but stopped dead. His heart thundered.

A knife point hovered a hair’s breadth from the soft underside of his jaw. What he could see of it was soaked in a slick yellow. Poisoned. The halfling stared up at him, eyes almost black. Kili lay between them, eyes flickering under closed lid. The knife didn’t even quiver. Thorin didn’t swallowed, in case he nicked it.

“Tell me your name,” The halfling said, voice low and venomous, “I’ll know if you lie.”

Thorin cursed himself. He had been caught, and so effortless, “Thorin. Thorin Oakenshield.”

The halfling glanced across Thorin’s face, scouring his every feature.

Then, miraculously, she withdrew, knife slipping into a sheath at her hip. This close, he could glimpse the clothes she wore under the cloak of her hair, leather jacket and black slacks. She wore no boots and her feet were black with grime. “Good,” She said, “Kili’s broken a few ribs and his head was badly rattled. You may take him.”

“What?” Thorin said, breathlessly.

“I wasn’t about to hand Kili over to just anyone,” The halfling said, “I had to check it was you. I told Dwalin I would. It’s not like I’d know you by sight.”

“You’re aiding us,” Thorin said, lifting Kili from the earth, and his nephew murmured. Thorin glanced over the halfling again, “You’re seen the rest of the company?”

“I should know where they are,” The halfling said, brushing a long curly sweep of her hair from her shoulder, “I was already in the camp when you were brought in. How many are your company?”

“Thirteen, including us two,” Thorin said.

“Right,” The halfling said, “I’ve freed six of you, then.”

Thorin continued to stare at her.

“ _Thank you, Miss Baggins_ ,” The halfling suggested sarcastically, shooting him a dark look.

“Th-thank you,” Thorin said, “I apologise, you surprised me.”

The halfling—Miss Baggins—lifted her nose into the air and snorted. One of her hands rested on the hilt of her dagger, and Thorin caught the glint of dull silver at her wrist, “You should take him out into the forest. There’s a small mud cave, hidden at the base where the roots of two pines cross. The rest of the company will meet you there.”

Thorin lifted Kili onto his shoulders, shifting his weight to avoid his nephew’s ribs. Before he was even finished adjusting his grip, Miss Baggins was darting across the camp, her hair flowing behind her like the wings of some tattered beast.

*

The mud cave was where the halfling had said it would be, indeed, Thorin discovered he was not the first to find it. Oin, Dori and Gloin were there already, huddled towards the back and hidden by a boulder. The cave was surprisingly spacious, if dank, and Thorin found he could stretch Kili out on the beaten earth floor with room to spare.

Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur joined within an hour, Bifur nursing a sprained ankle and Bombur bleeding from a bitten ear. Balin and Ori limped in, carrying Nori between them. Finally Dwalin came in, tailed quickly by Fili.

Only the Halfling remained to be seen. Although technically she hadn’t promised to appear, Thorin felt honour bound to wait for her, especially after hearing what she had done for the rest of the company. Nori detailed how she had snuck into their pens and silently removed rocks from the bottom of the bars, so they could slip under the bars while the orcs had their backs turned. As he was telling this, Kili surfaced into consciousness, before falling back asleep. Bifur told him that she had dropped a rotting piece of meat from a hook to distract a pack of wargs for long enough for him to scramble out of reach.

“Still, we should think carefully about trusting her,” Dwalin said.

“True,” Nori said, “It’s awfully convenient that she’s in the exact right time and place to save us. And her plan was intricate—that’s not something she could have thought of on the fly.”

“It’s not just that,” Dwalin said, “When she was talking to the orc captain, I heard—”

A heavy thump reverberated through the mud cave and everyone went still. Through the narrow mouth they saw the back legs of a huge beast as it landed on the earth, the warg’s tail sweeping the cave entrance. A heavy white orc sat on its back, facing away from them.

“She’s on foot,” The one-armed orc addressed an unseen audience in a low, rough voice, “The little whore can’t have gone far.”

The warg began to pace away, back shaking. Thorin stared in horror. Here was Azog, so close he could almost reach out and touch him. It took all he had not to rush him with only a battered sword at his side.

An orc landed behind it, racing to catch up with its master, “What if we find her? Shall we bring her in alive?”

“No. She has run out of chances and this will take more than a beating or two to set right,” Azog turned his warg down the hill, “I don’t care what you do to her. When you’re done, just bring her corpse to me so I’ll know I don’t have to humour her tricks anymore.”

The warg’s tail vanished over the crest of the hill and the riderless orc was close behind, slipping over the rise. More orcs could be heard overhead, but none came near the cave. Slowly, the day began to slip away, and dusk began to draw in. No more orcs were heard overhead for a long time, but none of the company felt like talking. As the evening turned to night, the air cooled and the land grew silent.

*

Three clear knocks on stone roused Thorin, who had fallen into an exhausted daze. He sat up straighter. It was now so dark, that the difference between the mouth of the mud cave and the night was difficult to distinguish. Still, he could definitely see something moving.

“Stand down,” A familiar voice cut through the night, “It’s only little old me.” The halfling slipped inside. She pressed a hand to the low ceiling, “Why didn’t you close the door?”

“Door?” Dwalin echoed.

The halfling hooked a finger into the earth and tugged down. With a thump of air, a sheet of plants was released, blocking out the last sliver of light. After a second of darkness, an orange glow bloomed from the halfling. A strange lantern rested in her grimy hands. With her face picked out in yellows and golds, she looked strange, half-formed. Her eyes were black and fathomless.

“I brought more than just a lantern, don’t worry,” The halfling set down the lantern in the centre of the cave and shifted her pack from her shoulder. It fell to the ground with a muffled whump, joined by a bulging satchel. The halfling followed, sitting down heavily. She looked around, “Don’t worry, you can talk. Azog will be miles away by now.”

“Azog?” Thorin scowled, “He’s here?”

“You didn’t know who captured you?” The halfling tilted her head, her long hair ghosting the floor.

“We didn’t get that pleasure,” Nori said, “Besides, we weren’t captured for long.”

The halfling leaned on her knee, “I suppose so. How did you get captured anyway?”

“You first,” Thorin scowled.

“Very funny,” the halfling said, “But as your host it’s only polite to tell me. And besides, I’ve brought food. If you tell me, you may share it with me.”

All thirteen dwarves’ heads lifted at the mention of food. It had been several days since they had last eaten. Thorin could feel his company’s shifting around and he sighed. He supposed it wouldn’t be too much to ask, given how much the halfling had proved her loyalty already.

“Alright,” Thorin said, “But allow my company to eat first. We are still weary from our imprisonment.”

The halfling raised a dark, heavy eyebrow, but she turned to pull the larger of the packs towards them. When she opened it, by the orange light of the lantern, the company saw apples, breads, cheeses, jars of jam and preserves, dried meat and bottles of wine and mead. She pushed the pack towards the middle of the group. “Deal.”

The dwarves fell on the food. Jars were twisted open and bread was torn, and the air was quickly filled with the sweet smell of jam. The halfling picked out a slim bottle of elderflower cordial, but left the rest to be ravaged. The commotion stirred Kili, who was passed a few salted meats which he chewed on thoughtfully. It wasn’t long until colour was returning to his cheeks. Thorin wrangled out some crusty bread and a few slices of cheese.

“You don’t have to very be quiet,” The halfling said, folding her legs under, “Not many orcs stayed behind, and the ones that did are closer to the camp than this.”

“You saw them?” Balin asked, around a mouthful of hard cheese, “And they didn’t see you?”

“None saw me,” The halfling said, “And before you asked, no I wasn’t followed either. I can be much lighter on foot than you Dwarves in your heavy boots. Besides, I know how to blend in.”

Quietly, Thorin thought that very likely. The halfling’s long hair resembled nothing as much as a bracken patch, dark and unruly to the point where, at a distance, the curls looked like thorns.

“I should think any company would benefit from a light-footed lass like you,” Nori observed, unsubtly. He glanced at Thorin, who pointedly ignored him.

“Aren’t you going to have some food, Miss Halfling?” Kili held up a corner of the pack.

“I already ate,” The halfling said, “And I’m not a halfling, since I am not half of anything. I am a hobbitess, or Miss Bilbo Baggins if you’d prefer.”

“Well, Miss Baggins,” Kili said, “I don’t think anyone has said Thank You yet, so I will,” He waved a salted chicken leg at her, “I appreciate not being Orc food.”

Bilbo raised one eyebrow, countenance lifting and shoulders lowering a fraction. She gave off the impression of smiling without actually smiling.

Once the dwarves had eaten enough to relieve their hunger pangs, and with a glance at Thorin, they began to talk. Not sing, for even if the Orcs weren’t close, their low notes could resonate through the earth. Bilbo listened, brushing aside a curtain of hair and tucking it behind her ear. Her head was slightly bowed, her eyes unfocused. When they finished, there was a long pang of silence.

“So you understand,” Thorin said, lowly, “why we must move on, and quickly.”

Bilbo glanced up, and her eyes shone, “Of course. Yes, I— I think I can quite understand,” Her voice was hoarse and strange, “I’ll aid you as I can. We can rest for a while, but we need to get moving before dawn.”

“Excuse me for asking, Miss,” Dori said, “but how are we supposed to escape the valley without the Orcs hunting us down? We are wounded and it is yet many miles to the nearest safe town.”

“I have my ways,” Bilbo said, “I doubt you will like it, however.”

“If it gets us out of the valley safely, I can’t think we will have much to complain about,” Thorin said, a little stiffly. He didn’t want the Hobbitess to somehow get the impression that they were fussy or unused to weathering bad conditions.

But Biblo only smiled, her first real smile since he’d met her. It was smug and small, as if she was sharing a private joke with herself. “Now, we can rest a while, but we will have to be long gone by sunrise.”

*

“This is a terrible idea,” Thorin said.

“You said you wouldn’t complain,” Bilbo said, and Thorin had a sneaking suspicion she was being smug. On her back she carried such a large pack she had to lean a little forward to avoid toppling over. She leaned on the side of the pen, her hand curling around the wooden frame as if she intended to open it.

Eight or nine Wargs were penned inside, the leather straps which pinned them down creaked and groaned as the mad animals twisted against them. They shifted as much as they could, writhing like a pack of snakes. Their muzzles were strapped closed, leaving just enough room for the white bared teeth to shift around and grind together.

“We’ll be eaten,” Fili looked pale. Kili leaned against him, eyes shadowed heavily.

“You won’t,” Bilbo said, “Trust me.”

Thorin grimaced. He was grateful for the favours she had done them, but this was still a bit of a stretch. The rest of his company seemed to agree—none of them had come even ten paces towards the pen—leaving the mad hobbitess alone with the den of Wargs.

Bilbo rolled up her sleeves, revealing old wounds over both arms. Both of her wrists had silver shackles, but the one on her right stretched up to the forearm, with red carvings which glowed gently. The Wargs reacted. Instead of the writhing, they became almost frightening still. Thorin didn’t feel any calmer. It wasn’t the stillness of a trained animal; it was the stillness of a hunting cat about to pounce.

Still, when Bilbo kicked the gate, none of the Wargs made a move to maul her. She gestured out into the open.

Wargs shook their heads, and followed her gesture, padding gingerly into the clearing. They moved awkwardly, long legs half-bent, as if a great invisible weight rested on their backs. Bilbo moved between them without even glancing at their long fangs, tying the straps together, until the Wargs were tied and arranged in a V-formation. She stood at the head of the formation, glancing at the dwarves expectantly.

Nobody moved.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, “Come on, they’re muzzled. It’s silly to still be fearful of them.”

“It’s not silliness, lassie,” Dwalin ran a hand over his bare scalp, “It’s more a healthy sense of self-preservation.” Thorin glared at the Wargs, eyeing their heavy black paws, and the long claws that glinted as the animals shifted their weight around. A Dwarf, riding a Warg? It was beyond ludicrous.

“That’s not something I’ve known an adventurer to have,” Bilbo said, almost cheerfully. As if to show them how it was done, she hooked a foot into the head Warg’s leather straps and swung herself onto the animal’s back. Her long hair stretched across the Warg’s back, nearly the same colour of dawn brown. The Warg didn’t even notice her weight, its dark nose pointed down and ears drawn back. She slipped back off the Warg and approached the group, her hands behind her back.

Thorin took a step back, “How do we know you’re not going to betray us?”

Bilbo looked confused for a moment, “To the Big Folk in the village? I’m not sure what you think I’d have to gain, but I can assure you—”

“Not the Big Folk,” Thorin snapped, “To the Orcs.”

Bilbo looked like she’d been slapped. She took an involuntary step back.

For a moment there was only an icy silence. Then, her face flat and expressionless, she looked up at him, between the tangled sheets of dirty hair.

“Why would I do that?” Bilbo asked, and her voice betrayed a sharp anger.

“It’s only reasonable to think that,” Thorin insisted, “You knew the Orcs’ routines, you knew the area very well, you can control Wargs—”

“You are truly,” Bilbo snarled, “As _stupid_ and _cruel_ as you look, Dwarf.”

Thorin bristled, “What did—”

“Get on the Warg,” Bilbo stamped back to the head of the group and swung onto the back of the evil animal with practiced ease, “Or don’t, and leave the rest of your pathetic company to be picked apart by Azog. I find I’ve lost all sympathy for your quest, if this is how you treat your benefactors.”

With a glance between themselves, the company approached the Wargs mutely. None of the animals so much as spared the Dwarves a second glance, although their low tails and drawn back ears telegraphed deep displeasure. With help from Dwalin, Fili lifted Kili onto one of the front Wargs, making sure he was secure on the animal before mounting himself.

Thorin approached one of the Wargs at the back, careful to give the hobbitess a wide berth. As he came nearer, the Warg jerked as if it had been stung and pitched towards him, fangs grinding together and claws cutting deep gouges in the earth. He leapt back, the deep, fearsome growl making his heart thunder.

“Don’t approach from behind, Dwarf,” Bilbo hissed from the head of the party, twisting the shackle on her left wrist, “Or have you never ridden a _horse_ before?”

Thorin gritted his teeth and mounted the still-grumbling Warg. The animal’s ribs were too wide to sit on comfortably, and he had to grip the leather bridle tightly. Warg pelt was coarse with guard hairs, but surprisingly soft closer to the skin. The animal’s body radiated heat, almost feverishly. There weren’t enough Wargs for everyone to ride singular, so Ori joined Thorin on the Warg, wrapping his arms around the king as he struggled to keep his balance.

“It’ll take us six hours riding at full tilt to reach the settlement,” Bilbo said, and as if taking queue, the Wargs began to move beneath them, pacing forwards at a low lope.

“Won’t you have to let the animals rest?” Balin asked.

“These are Wargs,” Bilbo said, without turning around. The Wargs leaped into a lurching run, tumbling over the earth and diving into the forest.

Riding Wargs was much more difficult than Thorin expected. They were nothing like horses. Their spines twisted under him, bucking like a bull, shoulders turning as they ran over uneven ground. Their flanks dipped and reared as they sprinted, and the tails of the next Warg ahead smacked Thorin more than a couple times.

Still, the animals were fast, faster than any pony. They seemed to fly over the ground, turning to anticipate a rabbit hole or fallen log before Thorin even had time to process it, claws ripping up clumps of earth and grass. Unlike ponies, they never had to be coaxed onwards, they never hesitated at rocky or loose ground. They tackled inclines as fast as the flat ground, bounding eagerly over the soft earth. When crossing a river they simply leaped clear over it, the impact hard enough to almost knock loose their riders.

Thorin could see Fili struggling to keep Kili on the animal. Most of the Dwarves had their work cut out for them, sliding dangerous from one side to the other as the Wargs veered around trees and over stumps. Sometimes, their mounts seemed to be deliberately trying to knock Dwarves off, jumping unnecessarily, or slipping into one another. The only rider who didn’t seem bothered was the hobbit, who rode raised up, her toes curled into the thick pelt of the Warg.

It only got worse as a few hours passed riding. The forest didn’t seem to change—the same unbroken line of trees, the same mossy grey-green earth—but the Dwarves visibly began to tire. The sun was glowing in the horizon. The Orcs would have returned to their camp by now and found their pens empty, and them only a few hours away. They could not stop now. And yet, from the stiff shoulders and tensed, pained looks in the Dwarves, Thorin didn’t think they could continue for much longer.

Thorin focused his attention on the hobbitess. It was difficult to see her behind the swinging mane of her hair, but she was in the same position she’d always been, raised onto her knees, feet buried in the animal’s pelt. Even with her huge pack on her back, she hadn’t moved from that position even once.

Thorin didn’t have the same dexterous toes, but he found he could lodge his boots into one of the dense knots of leather and lift himself slightly off the Warg’s back. Ori noticed him shifting and copied him. Thorin found he could shift his centre of balance forwards, hands fisted in the Warg’s mane.

It was devilishly difficult. Raised on the Warg’s back, Thorin had to rely on his own, tired muscles to keep him up, and his hands began to sweat under the thick fur. But now, every rock and pitch of the animal’s run didn’t threaten to send him crashing to the earth—he could, with a little practice, mitigate every twist and turn, as long as he saw it coming it.

The other Dwarves saw him change his stance and copied him, glancing back at Bilbo for reference. It had mixed success. Some weren’t coordinated enough, and almost toppled over, and others were nursing too many wounds to do much more than hunch over the Warg. Still, it was clear most of the Dwarves were much more stable.

Thorin caught Bilbo glancing back at him, her hair whipping around like a cloak of thorns. She hadn’t lowered herself onto the Warg to turn, instead only shifted her hips with expert grace and rested a hand on the Warg’s shifting haunches. She scoured his shoddy form, his shaking legs, and rolled her eyes at him before turning around again.

Thorin glared darkly at her back.

The Wargs carried them onwards, into the dawning day.

*

It felt like they had been riding forever, and then suddenly, Bilbo swung out her arm. Thorin had no idea what that gesture meant, but then it was clear it wasn’t for them. The Wargs slowed down all at different times, the leather straps that tied them snapping taunt and dipping low as they bounded into one another. They came to a stop by the side of a still, shallow river.

Bilbo settled down onto the Warg’s back for the first time, leaning back and stretching. “The settlement is only another hour’s walk,” She said, sliding off her Warg.

Thorin’s mount promptly sat down, tossing Thorin and Ori onto the wet earth. Ori wriggled out from under Thorin, nursing a bruised tailbone. The Warg scratched the inside of its round ears, small eyes closed. The other Dwarves dismounted hurriedly to avoid a similar fate.

Bilbo moved between the animals, cutting the leather ties with her small knife. As soon as they were separated, the Wargs shifted apart, to scratch their backs against the sides of trees and snap at each other. She caught the nearest Warg by the side of its muzzle and slipped he flat of the blade under the strap.

“Don’t take their blasted muzzles off!” Thorin found himself yelping.

Bilbo cut the muzzle deftly, sparing Thorin an icy glance, “Don’t presume to order _me_ around, Dwarf, else you’ll find the Wargs less friendly companions.”

Thorin glared at the Wargs which shifted around the company. They approached Bilbo like large dogs, pushing their snouts towards her so she could remove the last of their straps. It was down-right unnerving. It was like seeing a giant spider roll over so its belly could be scratched.

“They obey you,” Fili said.

“Such masters of observation are Dwarves,” Bilbo said, sourly, “Come, now. Unless you want this to have all been for nothing.”

The company filed after Bilbo, heading across the dark woods. The Wargs didn’t follow, milling around the clearing where they’d been left, drinking water and scratching themselves languidly. Bilbo’s shackle continued to glow, like a red wound in the darkness.

“Don’t linger,” Bilbo snapped at Balin, who hadn’t realised he’d started to hesitate, “The moment I’m not around, you’ll be meat scraps. Wargs aren’t fond of Dwarves.”

From her tone, Wargs weren’t alone in that. Thorin felt a twist in his chest, and he braced himself. He didn’t want to apologise to the foul, rude Hobbitess—but she _had_ helped them. His honour demanded that he find some way to repay that, which started by making their relationship at least cordial, if not warm.

“Miss Baggins,” Thorin bounded to catch up with her—she was surprisingly fast over the uneven earth.

Bilbo shot him a sour look, “What is it?”

“I have to—apologise,” Thorin said, voice hoarse. There was a moment of silence.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Thorin asked.

“Well, you have to apologise,” Bilbo said, “But are you going to?”

“Yes,” Thorin gritted out, “I’m sorry. You did us a great service and I shouldn’t have been rude to you.”

Bilbo looked sideways at him, “You don’t sound sorry.”

“Well, it was only natural to suspect you when—”

“ _Only natural_ ,” Bilbo repeated back to him, mockingly. She raised a hand to point at him, and Thorin caught an eyeful of dark, old welts on her arms where the shackles had chafed, “Listen, you _stupid_ Dwarf, do I look like an Orc Princess to you? Do I look like royalty? Did the Orcs treat me so well I would go trotting back to them when it took such an effort to free myself?”

Thorin opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out in time.

“And my _plan_ —” Bilbo swung her arms out, “—which was what? To free each of you individually and have you meet up somewhere secret—where I’d leave you for hours to escape on your own—only to feed you to Wargs the next morning? My, what a stroke of genius! How _diabolical!_ ”

Thorin actually keened away, the venom in her voice enough to send a shiver down his spine. He had the bizarre urge to press his hands to his ears like he had done when he was scolded as a child. He managed to maintain eye contact, so he saw the pure white-hot anger light up her face.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin said, quietly.

Bilbo glared at him, before, like a lioness abandoning a meal, she turned her head. It was a clear dismissal, and one Thorin was glad to take. He slunk to the back of the company. The Wargs, now distant, padded back in the opposite direction.

*

The Man settlement was small and sparse, but large enough that the company breathed a sigh of relief upon laying eyes on it. Bilbo struck out first, making a beeline for the inn, and, almost out of habit, the rest of the company followed her. There were only a few Big Folk around, for it was still early, but there were enough to give the gaggle of Dwarves strange looks.

Bilbo padded up to the bar of the inn, summoning the attention of the only bar tender working. The young woman, who had been wiping down the table, bent low to talk to Bilbo.

“I would like a single room,” Bilbo said, “Something with a bath, lunch and a fire.”

It was strange to light a fire in the morning, but the woman didn’t even raise and eyebrow, raising two fingers. Bilbo dropped two coins onto the table and was rewarded with a key. Bilbo was heading towards the stairs when Nori coughed pointedly.

“Lovely Miss Baggins,” Nori said, bowing his head.

The black-eyed look Bilbo sent him could have turned him to stone. It was a credit to Nori that he didn’t quail under it.

“I apologise; it’s bad manners to ask a host for more than is freely given,” Nori said, “However for the sake of my company I have to ask that you might spare a few coins so that we might restock our supplies that were lost to the Orcs, if at all possible.”

Thorin glanced between Nori and Bilbo. Thorin had indeed been keenly aware of his missing weapons and supplies on the ride over, but even he hadn’t had the guts to ask Bilbo for something like that. Most of the company had some sort of weapon they had stolen from the Orcs, but not all of them and besides, his chipped bronze sword was a poor replacement for the sleek weapon he used to wield.

Bilbo shifted her stance, turning towards them. For the first time, Thorin noticed just how tired she looked. Her eyes were shadowed with deep black marks, and her mouth was downturned. She shifted her hair to reveal that what Thorin had assumed was one pack was two, the smaller one strapped to a larger one that was strapped to her. With a few movements, the larger one crashed to the wooden floor. Bilbo turned and started up the stairs, the smaller pack swinging from her shoulders.

Nori approached the large pack and opened the top gingerly. He pulled out a familiar, long weapon. It was Nori’s sword. The rest of the company approached and found that the bag was stuffed with their supplies, liberated from the Orc camp. And at the bottom was their gold and their map.

Balin retrieved the pouch of gold at the bottom of the bag as the rest of the company retrieved their weapons. He counted the coins with short, blunt fingers, turning them over in his hands. He counted again. Thorin knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“All there,” Balin said, “Every penny.”

*

When Bilbo reached her small, square room, she slung her pack from her shoulders and dropped face-down into the bed. Her feet felt raw and painful, as if her skin had peeled back and she was walking directly on her nerves. Every bone ached. She spared a thought about how dirty she was making the bed, before snuggling down and dropping like a stone into a deep sleep.

It was long past lunchtime when she awoke, eyes gritty and head heavy. She didn’t feel any less tired, but she did feel very hungry and her bladder was fit to burst.

The bar tender—perhaps she was the innkeeper too, and cook—had left a large plate of day-old bread and hard cheeses. Bilbo ate the food quickly, washed down with a large mug of cold tea. After returning from the lavatory, she surveyed the rest of the room with a steeled heart.

Now was the real task.

Bathing. Bilbo locked the door. She stoked the fire which had fallen into low embers as she slept and drew a bath in the tin bath she had been provided. It would take a long time to heat, but she didn’t wait, peeling off her old leathers and blackened shirt. She grimaced at the noxious odour they released.

When the bath was full, she started with her feet, which turned out to be a mistake. She scrubbed and scrubbed, and the bath clouded blacker and blacker, but she didn’t make much progress uncovering the skin for at least twenty minutes. Her hands began to ache.

Finally, her feet were clean, and she replaced the water to clean the rest of her body. She had a little bit of soap and some cheap perfumes. The fire was roaring which made her sleepy and lethargic. Her nails were especially difficult, chipped and tinged, and one of her broken nails began to bleed when she scrubbed it too hard. Parts of her seemed stained, and she couldn’t get the dark patches from her flanks. Under the dirt, her skin seemed new, pink and tender.

She replaced the bath water for her hair, and ended up having to replace it twice more. Her hair was impossible. Dirt floated out of it when she soaked it, but the water didn’t make the combing easier. Every inch seemed knotted like a pack of weeds, and every tug she made went straight to her abused scalp. The curls seemed to conspire against her. More than once she seriously considered lopping all of it with her knife, but she came to her senses in time.

Bilbo took a break, stretching in front of the fire. Her hair was wrapped around her neck like a humongous cold slug. A heaviness rested on her, as if she was about to collapse.

She woke up hours later. By then, it was late afternoon. The chill of her hair had given her a low headache, just behind her ears. With more willpower than energy, she returned to the bath and dipped her head back inside. This time she treated it gently, teasing out the tangles with a comb and rubbing them between her fingers. It was thankless work, but after what felt like another hour, she could run the comb through her hair to scalp to tip uninterrupted.

Bilbo wrapped her hair in towels and dressed.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she passed and paused. She looked at her big, dark doe eyes, the wet curls of hair that escaped the towel. Bilbo glanced across her face, almost confused. She looked a lot younger than she felt. She raised a dark eyebrow at herself and folded herself into bed.

*

Thorin steadied himself outside the Hobbitess’ room for a long time. He knew she was in there. He could feet the heat from the fire she’d lit, the shadows which passed under the door as she walked around. Thorin had faced down Orcs and giant spiders in his time, but was finding it strangely difficult to gather his courage for this one.

In fact, he waited so long that the door almost smacked him in the face as Bilbo opened it.

Thorin took a few steps back to avoid his nose breaking on the heavy wooden door.

“Oh, it’s you,” Bilbo said, “What are you doing, creeping around out here? I thought you Dwarves would be long gone by now.”

Thorin found he couldn’t speak. He stared at the Hobbitess.

She had cleaned her dirty hands and revealed long white, delicate fingers. Her large, pale feet paused on the wooden floor like she was about to sprint past him. She wore Big Folk clothes, much too large for her, a clean white shirt which she had folded up the sleeves once, and then again. Her brown slacks seemed made for her, if a little long. But it was her hair which draw Thorin’s attention—which had been tamed from a thorny brown mess to a soft, downy braid which was still long enough to wrap twice around her neck, ending in a little rabbit’s tail tuft.

“Hello?” Bilbo prompted, tilting her head.

Thorin started, and tried to gather his thoughts, but found himself tongue-tied.

“Right,” Bilbo shifted back, an amused tilt to her eyebrow, “Well, I wanted to apologise to you, anyway.”

“Me?” Thorin said.

“Yes,” Bilbo sighed and leaned against the door, “I must say you did have a habit of putting your foot in your mouth while we were talking, but I still shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. I doubt you meant to cause such offense.”

“No, you’re right I didn’t,” Thorin said, “But I’m still sorry for my implications. I quite disgraced myself and spoke completely out of unfounded suspicion and fear. It was unbecoming of someone of my rank, to attack your intentions like that, especially as you had already risked a lot to aid me and my company, particularly my nephew Kili. I should have offered you some of the riches of Erebor as recompense for your services, which I do now. Once we have reclaimed Erebor, you will be allocated a portion of the riches to settle what we owe. For saving my company, I am in your debt, and at your service, for whatever you have need of us, until I die or the debt is repaid in full.”

Bilbo raised her eyebrows, a small smile gracing her features, “That was quite long. Do you have to make apologies like that often?”

“More than I’d like,” Thorin admitted.

Bilbo shut the door to her room and began to descend the stairs, “Well, I can see why your band is only thirteen strong, then.”

“Fourteen,” Thorin said, before he could stop himself. He swallowed, “If you continue to aid us.”

Bilbo paused between steps, glancing back at him. Her expression as unreadable. Then she turned and continued down the stairs, “I do have one thing I’d request of you.”

*

It took two strong strikes from the chisel and the shackle broke apart like an egg. The skin underneath prickled in the air and Bilbo pulled back her arm to rub it.

Balin waited for her to present her other arm, which she did. This one had the red runes, which still glowed in the dark. Balin broke the hinges with a crack. It joined the other fragments of the shackles, and the fetters which had been broken from her ankles.

“Is it good metal?” Bilbo said, breaking the gloomy silence that had fell over the group.

“Aye, of a kind,” Balin turned a half of the shackle in his hands, “It’s coated with silver on the inside, to stop it rusting. And this one—” He waved a hand over the runed one “—has rubies in the cuffs.”

Bilbo picked up the pieces, slotting them together and breaking them apart absently. She tilted it, watching the light slip and pool over the fine metal, “I’ll leave them with the innkeeper. She could melt it down for something nice. I’ll keep the Warg Charmer.”

“Sounds right,” Balin said.

“Warg Charmer? Is that how you could control the Wargs?” Kili asked, earning himself a few sharp looks.

Bilbo didn’t seem to mind, “Yes. But it would only work for me.” She picked up the shards of the Charmer, tracing a finger over the deep-cut runes, “It’s bound to my first name, in Orcish.”

“How does it work?” Kili asked.

“Wargs are connected together—it’s not quite telepathy, but empathy,” Bilbo said, “The Charmer allows me to enter the connection, and direct them around.”

Kili stared at the pieces of metal.

“Wargs aren’t evil,” Bilbo said, “they just reflect their master’s wishes. But when it’s an orc, their wishes are generally to kill and destroy.”

“That’s so strange,” Kili observed, “I never knew that.”

Bilbo raised a shoulder in a half-shrug and excused herself. She wandered out of the inn, the Charmer dangling from her fingers. She knew it was best to keep it around—it would be invaluable if she ever ran into any Wargs again—but she couldn’t quite banish the urge to toss it into the river and be done with it.

Evening sun stretched around her, weak and orange tinted. Biblo leaned over a chicken pen near the inn, watching the little animals squawk and flap at each other. A few feathers floated in the cool breeze.

“How long do you think until the Orcs are after us?” Thorin asked, stopping near her.

“He’s already after you, but at least a day or so until he reaches here,” Bilbo said, without looking at him, “And what’s this ‘us’?”

Thorin frowned, “I meant to offer formerly. I would like you to join our company. I think your skills would aid us in reclaiming Erebor from Smaug.”

“As what?” Bilbo said, glancing up at him, “A warrior?”

“A thief,” Thorin said, “Or a burglar. You are gifted at sneaking around, and you think well on your feet. You would be awarded an equal share of my family’s treasure, as well as an appropriate position within the court.”

“Riches and status,” Bilbo said.

“Riches and status,” Thorin repeated.

Bilbo turned to face him, her long tail of hair swinging over her shoulder, “You know, Azog told me about you.”

“You spoke to Azog?” Thorin asked, startled.

“Trust me, he’s not much of a conversationalist,” Bilbo said, “But yes, on occasion. And mostly he talked about the foul Thorin Oakenshield, who dared to face him and mutilate him. He’d spend hours raging and breaking rocks and thrashing his men in anger. I don’t think he’s been defeated like that, ever.”

Thorin lifted his head. He didn’t feel proud, but something else shifted in his chest.

“Forget riches, forget status,” Bilbo stretched out a hand, “If you can deliver me his defeat, Thorin Oakenshield, if you can finish what you started all those years ago, it will be _me_ in _your_ debt.”

Thorin grasped her hand, “I will do everything in my power to see him defeated, one way or another.”

Bilbo shook his hand, a grim smile on her face.

*

When the pair of them returned to the Inn, the rest of the Dwarves had begun to eat. Food was piles up in small mounds, as the Dwarves ploughed through it voraciously. The clatter and crack of cutlery had the Baggins in her on edge, and she was suddenly very glad that she had never hosted them.

“Bilbo!” Fili waved her over, “Bilbo, come choose a weapon.” Kili shook the bag of weapons at her.

Bilbo picked up a plate and piled it with food while she made her way towards them. She sat between the two Dwarves, putting bread into her mouth. Kili rummaged through the weapons, which clattered together like a bag of rocks.

“If you travel with us, you need to be armed,” Fili said, “What are used to wielding?”

“My knife?” Bilbo patted the poisoned blade at her hip.

“Is it a throwing knife?” Kili asked.

“Ah – No, the stabbing kind?”

Kili nodded sagely and retrieved a set of stout silver blades, “How’s your aim?”

Bilbo thought for a moment, “Poor?”

“Right,” Kili dropped the knives back into the bag and brought out a mace, passing it to her.

Bilbo swung the mace around experimentally, “Do you have anything… lighter?”

“Give her Sting!” Fili suggested.

Kili beamed, and pulled out a short sword, still wrapped in leathers. He unfolded it, revealing a handsome sharp blade.

“This is a special sword,” Kili said, passing it to her, “It turns blue when—oh.”

Bilbo lifted the sword. As soon as she had touched it, the blade had turned faintly blue, glowing like the moon behind clouds. “What?” She asked.

“It’s supposed to turn blue when there’s an orc near,” Fili explained, “Perhaps it’s broken?”

“Unless there’s something you’re not telling us?” Kili teased, eyes bright.

“Not that I know of,” Bilbo said, turning the sword over. The glow was only very faint, and disappeared when she released the hilt, only to rekindle when she picked it up again, “Why would it—?”

She dropped the sword.

All colour drained out of Bilbo’s face. She looked like she might faint. Sting bounced across the wooden floor and disappeared under the table. Bilbo shot to her feet only to stumble, catching herself against the wall. She pressed a hand to her forehead, eyes as wide as a startled deer.

“Bilbo?” Kili said, “What’s wrong?”

“I—I…” Bilbo felt a horror dawn on her, rock her to the core. It was like she had been doused in ice-water. She couldn’t process it, “I have to go.”

She left, starting out of the inn and tumbling into a run.

*

There was only a little light left in the forest by the time she reached the river, but she knew exactly what she was looking for. She found it quickly. A small herb, with half-open leaves, slightly furry on the bottom but naked on the top, dappled with very faint white.

Without pausing to catch her breath, Bilbo undressed enough to urinate on it. She withdrew it with shaking hands and found exactly what she had been expecting.

The faint white dapples had bloated and brightened, to the point where they seemed to glow in the gloom with their own light.

She sat back, dazed. Bilbo was pregnant.


End file.
